


Karhakon:ha

by manic_intent



Series: Kawatsire [4]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Competitiveness, Don't read if squicked!, Exaggerated English-French rivalry, Haytham isn't sure what he thinks about this, Incest, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Spoilers for AC3 and Liberation, That AU where Connor and Aveline exchange fake love letters, in an attempt to get Aveline's dad off her back on the matter of marriage, warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 18:50:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haytham wasn't sure whether to be amused or annoyed when he found the courting letters Connor had written to the mysterious Lady 'A'. On one hand, the claim he had on Connor was so far past the boundaries of normal propriety that jealousy was a laughable concept.</p><p>On the other hand, the letters were stultifyingly <i>awful</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Karhakon:ha

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brokibrodinson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokibrodinson/gifts).



> Mandarin translation: http://www.mtslash.net/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=244405&page=1&extra=#pid4473854  
> \--  
> Written because I am terribly bored, and have no fic ideas... so... 
> 
> After recently playing Liberation on Steam, I was vaguely brewing this idea where Connor helps Aveline out with Phillippe's endless ;D AND THEN YOU SHOULD GET MARRIED MY DAUGHTER! by being her fake English boyfriend, but then the usual horrible AC-ish things happen to Aveline's family and eh. So this is more of an AU, where not only Haytham's minions are alive, but so are Aveline's family members...

I.

Haytham wasn't sure whether to be amused or annoyed when he found the courting letters Connor had written to the mysterious Lady 'A'. On one hand, the claim he had on Connor was so far past the boundaries of normal propriety that jealousy was a laughable concept.

On the other hand, the letters were stultifyingly _awful_. 

"'The world is brighter by the light of your eyes'? _Really_ , Connor?" Haytham read out aloud with a grimace, slouched in Connor's chair at the old study table. Like the rest of Connor's inherited mansion in his so-called Homestead, it was plainly furnished, but clean, and the few books that Connor or Davenport had hoarded over the years were assiduously stacked in neat ranks on the shelves. 

The letters had been secured in a padlocked strongbox within a locked drawer inside the scuffed old desk, under careful stacks of boring reports from Connor's surprisingly successful shipping ventures, requisitions for the Aquila and reports about the daily running of the Homestead, written in a clumsy farmer's hand in excruciating detail. Haytham had been nearly bored out of his mind by the time he had decided to start tickling a few locks to see what meagre secrets his son might yet hold from him. 

Connor glowered at him from the doorway to the study. Unlike Haytham or the other ill-educated peasants whom constituted the small farming community, Connor didn't appear to be wrapped up against the bite of high winter in the least, and but for his Assassin whites and blues, he'd no doubt look just as comfortable in one of those godawful paintings of the so-called Savages of the New World, popular now and again in London social circles. His quiver of newly fletched arrows were a couple short, and at his hip he held a brace of freshly murdered rabbits.

"It's not polite to read someone else's mail," Connor noted finally, his tone mild, and wandered off, rather to Haytham's surprise. He had been expecting a tantrum of sorts, or at the least some suitably juvenile retort; instead, Haytham felt as though _he_ had been the one slapped down to level, and he scowled down at the letters. 

Propriety and pride demanded that he follow Connor, perhaps with a few more biting remarks or two, but well. Haytham _was_ on holiday. 

It took an hour to locate Lady 'A's written responses - for some reason, Connor had chosen to squirrel them away in a separate place: within a lockbox under a floorboard that Haytham would well have missed had he not double-checked the slightly uneven seam of the old wood panelling close to one of the shelves. Lady 'A' was undoubtedly educated: she had neat and undeniably lovely handwriting, feminine but firm, and a light perfume lingered on a few of the more recent letters. She seemed rather enamoured of Connor but her letters were just as juvenile and empty-headed.

She was Connor's age, perhaps. And, judging from the postmarks, she lived in New Orleans. 

"I'm not sure what I fail to understand more," Haytham observed later to Connor, over a passable dinner of rabbit stew. "That you somehow managed to snare the attention of a merchant's daughter, or that the two of you truly have so little that either of you can think of to say to each other." 

Connor rolled his eyes. "How old do you think we are, _Father_?"

"Well," Haytham grumbled, "If she's about your mental age, which I think she is, then neither of you are as yet in any shape to be let out into the wilds of proper society, that's for certain."

To Haytham's irritation, Connor merely smirked at him, and continued shovelling stew into his endless maw. Connor had yet to finish his growth spurt, which his profound appetite was fuelling in leaps and starts, and soon he would have perhaps half a hand or more in height on Haytham himself. It's an irrationally annoying thought to entertain, and Haytham squashed it quickly. 

"When did you get around to visiting New Orleans?" Haytham asked finally, because although he had his pride, his curiosity had always been a far more demanding creature. 

"I didn't," Connor noted mildly, using bread to sponge up the last of his stew. "She visited Boston."

"When?"

"Sometime ago," Connor drawled, clearly enjoying Haytham's open ire.

"Oh, don't be childish-"

"I don't see why this is your problem, that's all," Connor interjected, still wearing his childish smirk. 

"Well, it certainly is," Haytham snaps, "If the letters are _sincere_." 

He wasn't sure what he thought about _that_ possibility. Haytham was not a selfless man by any measure, but he _had_ spoken true when he had said that he had felt some sort of responsibility for Connor, mired as it was within circumstance, convenience, and his own desires. If Connor was courting a girl his age... well. Haytham was not monster enough to stand in the way of the natural order of matters.

Assuming this girl was of a fit and proper character.

Connor was eyeing him thoughtfully, soberly, the hunk of bread half-eaten in his hands. Finally, he merely grunted, finished eating, and ambled off with the dirty pots and bowls. Haytham took in a deep breath, made himself a pot of tea, missing his housekeeper, and sat in the draughty drawing room of the mansion, beside an old board of checkers. The game was unfinished, and the pieces were gathering dust. Some sort of sentiment, perhaps. A last game between Connor and the now-absent Davenport. 

The back door closed, just loudly enough for Haytham to pick up the sound over the wind - Connor doing his quick evening round of the Homestead: and Haytham sighed, looking about the dusty old house with its persistent chill, its bachelor's lack of warm finishes and little luxuries. How different would the house look with a woman's hand put to it? How... _odd_? And - grandchildren? Haytham was even less sure of what he felt about grandchildren. Children were a separate species of unfinished creature that he had always been careful to avoid.

Daydreaming, Haytham started with a bitten-down oath when Connor touched his shoulder. The candle he had set in a holder beside his cup of tea had burned down nearly to a stub, and the tea was freezing cold. Wordlessly, Connor gathered up the pot and saucer and cup and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, and Haytham picked up the candle, finding his way up the stairs. He hesitated at the study, frowning to himself, then he sighed, stepped in, and locked Connor's letters in the drawer. He was about to sort Lady 'A's letters neatly into the lockbox back in the order he had found them when Connor's step scuffed loud against the door.

Connor looked... amused, to say the least, and when Haytham narrowed his eyes, Connor added, dryly, "Did you try reading the letters using the Sight?"

Ah.

Wait. 

Letters written partly in the _Sight_. Lady 'A' from New Orleans was an Assassin, or Assassin bred. 

Which meant-

"Your 'Lady A' is _Aveline de Grandpré_?" Haytham was dimly aware that his voice had jumped a notch, but the burp of outrage had taken him by surprise. 

"That was fast," Connor observed, folding his arms. 

"She's _half-French_!" 

"Oh," Connor began, then he started to laugh - deep, helpless chuckles that bled into fits and snorts. " _You_ ," he managed, as he staggered against the door, still shaking with laughter, "You as well!" 

" _Me_?" Haytham snarled, the lockbox forgotten, uncoiling to his feet. "Speak sense, boy!"

Connor made a few ineffective attempts to rein in his mirth, but in the end, he stepped over to Haytham, confiscating the letters, and locking them back up under the lockbox, still occasionally chuckling under his breath. Haytham clenched his hands, lips thinned dangerously, but he held an injured silence as Connor straightened back up to his feet. 

"I've been in contact with some of the other Assassins who operate around this part of the world," Connor noted dryly. "Seeing as I'm young, and heading the Assassin cadre in this part of the world by myself, I thought maybe I might need advice." 

"From a _Frenchwoman_?"

"For the most part," Connor ignored him, "The Assassin cadres tended to give neutral responses or just never replied at all. The Mentors are old and suspicious and I gather that Davenport was not very popular even when he was still operating-"

"'Not very popular' is an understatement," Haytham agreed flatly. It had suited his plans then - the New York territory had been under-represented in terms of an Assassin presence. Assassins were unbalanced and cagey folk as a general rule - there had been schisms even in their ranks in London. 

"-so when Aveline started writing back to me, I wrote back, and now we exchange letters fairly often" Connor continued, with a shrug. "We are about the same age, with similar circumstances. I work to try and free my people, she is doing the same-"

"You both run shipping empires," Haytham conceded. "And your parents are..." he trailed off, hesitating. It's one matter to attempt to identify, however unnecessarily, with his son's apparent attempts at courtship. It's another altogether to betray the identity of the Templar Grandmaster operating in New Orleans, despite their continuous and intractable feuding. 

"Crazy old men," Connor finished, and smirked, indicating that he had no idea whom Aveline's stepmother truly was. And neither did Aveline herself. Well, well. "Really, father, when Aveline first asked me for this favour I didn't think it truly would work."

"What favour?"

"Her French father's been pestering her to get married," Connor shrugged, "Inviting her to parties and such on her behalf. Always entertaining 'suitable' guests at home. She's already running his business as well as Assassin business, and she can't manage the time for what he wants, but she doesn't want to upset him, so."

"So she thought perhaps if she openly received letters from a suitor her father's attempts to get her married off would cease?" Haytham asked disbelievingly. "Lady Aveline is a half-b... eh, only half-French," he amended quickly, when Connor's eyebrows rose warningly. "Her father needs to secure her inheritance by marrying her off. Otherwise, she'll be subject to the whims of her stepmother if he passes away. It's not a question of a sudden paternal fancy. Securing a good marriage for her in her circumstances is his _responsibility_." Even a venal French merchant undoubtedly understood that.

"She's managed well so far on that front, I hear. She can take care of herself," Connor disagreed blithely, painfully naive as always. "In any case, she simply wanted to pretend to be courting someone so unsuitable that her father would stop pressuring her about marriage until she 'settles down more'. She's busy with something and didn't want to be pestered."

" _Unsuitable_?" Haytham echoed, surprised to find himself irritated at the very thought. "Why, because you're half Native?"

"Because I'm half- _English_ ," Connor corrected, and laughed at whatever he saw on Haytham's face.

II.

Haytham was still in an extremely bad mood when he returned from the Homestead and re-immersed himself in Templar matters back in New York. He had reread the letters with the Sight: most discussed trading routes, some discussed business, a few, weapons, and some others, Haytham's secret favourites, debated points of philosophy about the Creed.

Lady Aveline was no fool: she was clearly disillusioned about the Creed and its many pointlessly destructive facets. She had priorities over the Creed's dictates, questioned her mentor, and had been sneaking about the Company Man's secret dealings in Mexico, something that Haytham to date had been unable to penetrate. She was certainly, Haytham decided wryly, rather more intelligent and worldly than his son: though then again, maybe that was just the case for girls, who often matured faster and wiser. 

That knowledge didn't help his mood much, and even Charles tiptoed gently around him for days. Connor had disappeared again, on some Assassin business of some sort that didn't seem to concern Haytham's affairs. He set himself to trying to discover more about the Company Man's plans, failed, and in one unpleasant late afternoon after he had lost his temper thoroughly at the messenger, sat on the roof of his house, forcing himself to watch the stars. 

It was too cloudy to see Connor's Great Bear, too early in the day, but the thought of the story calmed Haytham a little. Not so much of the thought of how old the story had to be, carried on from mouth to mouth for perhaps as long as people had first set foot on this land - but the memory of Connor's fierce pride in knowing it, of speaking it, of passing it on. Of his then-fragile trust. 

He's not entirely surprised at the faint scrape of a heel on the roof slate behind him, or when Connor sat down beside him, within reach but not too close. Haytham could feel the heat of Connor's body even so, running his eyes over the rangy, dangerous lines of his young, fit frame: feeling possessive and, he would admit, a little jealous. 

"Didn't you have business down near the coast?" Haytham inquired, and allowed himself a smirk when Connor frowned at him. Tracking Connor's movements had become easier of late, now that he has enjoyed some manner of influence over his son's direction. Still, it _was_ gratifying how Connor seemed eternally surprised at Haytham's apparent omniscience.

"Finished early," Connor noted mildly, instead of quarrelling and storming off as he was usually wont to do when buoyed high on the rush of a task run completed. Maybe Aveline has been a good influence. 

The thought's not entirely a pleasant one.

"Good," Haytham decided, testing the waters. "I have a few errands that need running." 

"Right now?" 

"No one's getting any younger."

"I was thinking," Connor continued, ignoring the jibe, in his same, mild tone, "That since you seem to be free right now, that perhaps it's a considerate moment for a display of brutishness." 

He grinned, the arrogant and shameless little brat, and Haytham stared at him for a sheer moment of utter astonishment before he choked and started to cough. Desire grew in a slow lick of pressure in his loins, and Haytham swallowed as Connor uncurled to his feet with that irresistible, primal grace of his and padded away to the edge of the roof. 

Haytham reached his bedchambers in time to watch Connor start shedding his gear with blithe disregard of how sharpened weaponry could scuff polished wood, and the brat laughed again as he watched Haytham grumble and pick up after him. Connor's scent was earthy and rich with pine and leather and steel; Haytham felt his mouth start to water as he set his teeth against Connor's neck just to taste the growl that thrummed through the boy's throat as he twitched. 

Callused fingers knocked Haytham's hat off his head: Connor kissed the uncurling snarl on Haytham's mouth as practised fingers worked on Haytham's coat, then his belts and vests, all the while walking them both back towards the bed. Their breaths grew tangled and hot as Haytham managed to get the Assassin whites off Connor's broad shoulders to run greedy hands over his superbly fit flesh; all ropy muscle and strength. Somehow they managed to shuck their boots as Connor twisted and shoved Haytham down on the bed with a touch more strength than he needed; despite himself, Haytham bit off a moan, and Connor's grin grew wolfishly hungry.

Haytham had indulged his son in these games of give and take a handful of times since the first, if only because he was an old hand at handling killers, and the blade that his son has become needed to be whet and honed now and then. There's a wild energy in his son that burns destructively hot when it's left to simmer: now and again, Haytham shunts it off for his own purposes. For the privilege of being able to do so, there's a price, but of late there's pleasure in paying it.

A gasp was knocked out of him as Connor pressed Haytham against the headboard, then a muffled growl as Connor managed to get his teeth against the pulse in Haytham's neck, high enough that Haytham will need a scarf tomorrow to cover the marks. Breeches were an inconvenience quickly shed under hungry, nimble fingers, and Connor spat on his palm as he took them both in hand with an impatient jerk of his wrist, grinning as Haytham's hips snapped up involuntarily with a stifled moan. 

Connor shifted up to straddle Haytham's hips, his grin turning into a smirk at Haytham's startled, "Wait-" as he lined himself up and sank down. It's tight, but not unbearably gritty as Haytham had expected - God help him, the boy had - when had he-

"On the way back," Connor supplied, as though Haytham had spoken out loud through the white roar of lust in his blood, "It wasn't so good."

"What - what wasn't-" Haytham tried to pry his white-knuckled fingers off Connor's narrow hips, but his body betrayed him by writhing instead, pinned so unmercifully to the sheets by Connor's greater weight and strength. " _God_ , Connor, _move_ -"

"My fingers," Connor explained calmly, as though he wasn't in the process of driving his poor father insane, "I like this better." 

Haytham's response to _that_ could only be described as a strangled gasp, and Connor stroked his palms up Haytham's shaking arms to his elbows, pinning him as he rolled his hips lazily, baring his teeth as Haytham badly swallowed a cry. 

"Now," Connor murmured, and Haytham belatedly recognised the wildness in the boy's eyes, Heaven, Connor's in one of his fey moods and Haytham's walked right into it, yet again, "Now, I think maybe you should be nicer to me."

The statement's so incongruous that Haytham only managed a sputtered, " _What_?"

"Ask me for things," Connor added, as he rolled his hips again, grinding Haytham torturously deeper, arching his back as he deliberately clenched tight. "Like a normal person."

"You want me to _beg_ ," Haytham concluded disbelievingly. " _Me_."

"You," Connor echoed, fey mischief curling up his lips. "Go on."

"You," Haytham snarled, "Are an utterly unmanageable brat with no respect for his betters-" The rest of his tirade stutters into a choked off whine as Connor lifts himself up a few tempting inches and drops his weight back down with a half-growl of deep pleasure. 

"I was thinking about this," Connor observed, and Christ but the boy spoke true - his cock was pressed heavy and swollen against Haytham's belly. "I think it'll take me a while to get tired." 

" _I'm_ getting tired," Haytham snapped, but there's no heat in it, only an edge of desperation as the hunter in his own heart purred at the touch of a kindred soul; he tried to buck but Connor bore down on him, pinning him again even as he arched up and squeezed his thighs against Haytham's ribs with a whispery gasp. It's probably staged, but it worked - the throbbing ache in Haytham's arousal has grown painful. 

Still, Connor's own streak of stubbornness was probably inherited from Haytham himself - Haytham tried to endure it, reasoning that his own self-control _had_ to be better than a boy more than half his age. "Stop playing, Connor," he invited, as he pitched his voice rougher, "Let me up. I'll give you what you want. As hard as you like."

Connor shivered, licking his lips, but the fey mood was still in his eyes and in the sharp curl of his lips. "You're going to give me what I want anyway." 

"Then take it on your terms," Haytham twitched up his hips, twisting, watching Connor's face grow briefly slack with pleasure. "Ride me. You said that it was what you were thinking of, wasn't it? You already have me where you want me."

From the stillness of Connor's shoulders, Haytham could tell that the brat was tempted: but then he laughed and curled down to set another bite on Haytham's flesh, lower down, under his collar bone, even as he lifted his hips and drove himself back down, in a brief, maddening snap. Haytham couldn't swallow the keening cry he made in time, and when Connor looked back up, there's triumph on the goddamned boy's face. 

When he gave, as he finally had to, Haytham's voice was rasping and low as he gasped, "Please, Connor, God, have mercy."

"There we go," Connor noted, with patronising gentleness, and he grinned as he let go of Haytham's elbows, shifting his grip up to the headboard, and Haytham was interrupted in his attempt to bite Connor for his temerity by the sudden brutal up and drop of Connor's lean frame. 

It's all that Haytham could do to keep up, feeling bruised, exultant, overwhelmed - this was insanity of a purer sort, this madness between them both, and it was theirs and theirs alone. Connor fucked them both broken down and raw, until Haytham's breaths wove sobs with gasps and Connor's own laboured moans were rasping and hoarse. It was almost as much torture as relief to come, finally, burying his cry by setting his teeth high up on Connor's shoulder; Connor laughed a wolf's laugh when he spilled in turn, his cock caught between their bellies, silent, wild, savage.

III.

"I'm too old for this," Haytham told Connor the next morning, when he woke to a thoroughly ruined bed and Connor half-dressed, seated at Haytham's writing table, scribbling a letter.

"I know," Connor had the cheek to retort, smirking as he briefly lifted his eyes. 

Haytham groaned, rubbing a palm over his eyes. He wasn't even sure what time of the morning it was. Sunlight had drawn long fingers over the wooden floorboards from the partly opened curtains, and the room stank of sweat and lust. He ached all over, and the bite that Connor had inflicted on his neck stung pointedly. But still. It was a pleasant ache. 

"How did Aveline manage to find an ink that reads true only in the Sight?" he asked finally, in a somewhat more conciliatory tone. 

"How did you know that I was writing to her?" Connor countered, with another grin.

"There's ink bottles aplenty on my desk, but you're using one that I don't recognise," Haytham pointed out, with some asperity. "I'm growing old, not blind."

"One of her Assassin friends is very good at inventing things," Connor explained, after a moment's pause. "She tells me that he's in love with her, but she wants to keep business and pleasure separate. I am telling her that it's entirely possible to mix both." And he smirked at Haytham, then laughed as Haytham growled and grabbed Connor's bracer from the side table, tossing it at his head. 

"It's not so simple for a woman," Haytham muttered finally, rolling gingerly into a dry spot on the bed. 

"I see that," Connor retorted, who clearly didn't, and Haytham rolled his eyes.

"Give me that paper."

"Why?"

"If you're trying to write a remotely credible love letter, your sentencing needs thorough editing. You can write the hidden letter, I'll write the covering letter." 

Connor frowned at Haytham, openly suspicious. "What do _you_ know about love letters?"

"I've had the dubious benefit of an extensive classical education, brat. Now give it here."

"She'll know that it isn't from me," Connor scowled, not budging from his seat. "Even if I rewrite it." 

"Do you want to help her in this or not? You've both, what, exchanged how many letters to date? And her father is still pressing unwanted suitors on her time? Clearly there's been some manner of utter failure on your part, or hers, or both." 

"...Fine," Connor conceded, with ill grace. "By the way, I want to _help_ her, not get her thrown out of her house."

"I understand subtlety far better than you, boy."

Besides, it was possible - just possible - that there was opportunity here, somewhere. Haytham had tried to communicate with the New Orleans sect of the Order before, out of politeness, and had always been rudely rebuffed, or worse. He and the Company Man have even at times gone so far as to interfere with each other's affairs, sometimes out of sheer pettiness and spite. Perhaps-

IV.

A fair indication that Haytham's meddling had not gone unnoticed came when New Orleans abruptly began to express an interest in mending the various burned bridges between the Templar Order ensconced there and the one represented by Haytham. The meeting on neutral ground in the upper level of a tavern in a godforsaken town had gone rather well at first, tense but not unfriendly, as Haytham and the Company Man worked out borders and boundaries and stiffly attempted to align their plans such that although they didn't mesh, they didn't step on each other's feet.

In the end, Haytham broke out a good bottle of wine, and the tension bled away a little, even as the Company Man waved her minions away from the table to the stairway. Arching an eyebrow, Haytham nodded to Charles and Hickey, indicating that they do the same, leaving a pocket of quiet around the two Grandmasters. 

The Company Man was a pinch-faced, hard-eyed woman, dressed in a man's coat and breeches and riding boots: with a broad-brimmed hat on her head, she could quite possibly pass in her guise as a male traveller. With her thick, graying hair bared to the candlelight, however, she was obviously a woman - if whipcord hard and ruthless. She was, as far as Haytham was aware, just as dangerous as any Templar of either gender, and he did respect that. Mostly.

They exchanged some small talk for a desultory moment, then Haytham said, dryly, in French, "Why don't you get to the real reason why you called me out here, Madame?"

"Your French accent is barbarous but overall, fairly good," the Company Man sniffed. "What about your son's?"

Hah. Haytham kept his expression schooled. "Non-existent, I believe. But he has surprised me before."

"Tch." The Company Man's gaze was cold as it raked over Haytham and clearly found him lacking. "Tell him to stay away from Aveline, or he will regret it. If he thinks that he understands suffering, he has not yet known what I can do."

Haytham snorts, and tamps down on his own temper with some effort. He _had_ originally been planning, out of Templar courtesy between one Grandmaster and the next, to reveal Connor's and Aveline's rather juvenile system of communication to the Company Man, but now he's annoyed. "They're both young. About the same age. About the same interests. Young people will do what they like."

"She has far better prospects than a half-blood farmer Assassin," the Company Man retorts. "Her father is being driven to distraction! If it is not enough that this boy of yours is barely educated, _merde_ , he has English blood!" 

"I expressed about the same sentiments to Connor when I first heard about his correspondence," Haytham agreed mildly, "It's not enough that this Aveline of yours is half-French, she-"

"Careful," the Company Man's tone was wintry, and although her hands were folded on the table, the threat was obvious. Haytham glanced over at the stairwell, where all their various subordinates were clearly trying not to eavesdrop while trying to politely jostle into the best defensive positions, and had to swallow a laugh. "If the situation... escalates, I will not only view all our agreements today null and void, I will declare war on your territories. I will destroy you. And then I will destroy your son."

"It is always so pleasant to meet a like-minded colleague," Haytham said finally, with an insincere smile. 

"I agree," the Company Man replied, in accented English, then added flatly, " _Va te faire mettre_." 

Haytham shook his head as the Company Man left, striding out of the tavern flanked by her men, and when Charles growled and muttered to himself, Haytham started to chuckle. 

"What the fuck was that all about?" Hickey demanded, still darting glances between Haytham and the door. "For a moment I thought she was going to tear your throat out!" 

Charles glowered briefly at Hickey, then he scowled and turned back to look to Haytham. "I have to agree. The meeting seemed to be going well at first, and then-"

"Connor has been exchanging love letters with her stepdaughter," Haytham explained blandly, as he rolled up the documents on the table and wrapped them in an oilcloth.

"...What?" Charles asked, shocked, even as Hickey let out a startled guffaw.

"Is _that_ fucking it?"

"I _was_ going to assure her that the letters were a front for something else entirely," Haytham continued, "But she struck me as a most wretchedly aggravating woman, and besides, we've gotten what we wanted - a formalised truce. Let's return to civilisation, shall we? I've had enough of the dubious comforts of the country hearth."

The entire, exhausting episode had, admittedly, the pleasant side effect of allowing Haytham to get one up on his impudent son: on his return to New York, he had mentioned offhandedly that he had met with Aveline's stepmother while away on business, and had smirked when Connor had all but yelped before peppering him with questions. _No_ , he wasn't stalking Aveline, or her parents. _Yes_ , they did have Words. Yes, Aveline's parents had no idea it was a front. _Yes_ , Aveline's stepmother had a most colourful turn of phrase when she described the appropriateness of Connor's apparent suit. 

"I suppose," Connor said finally, doubtfully, "That I never thought that it would get this far. It was just something funny that I thought might help out a friend for a while. I didn't really want to make her parents so angry. I think... maybe, they are taking this too seriously."

"Ah," Haytham shrugged disparagingly, as he sank into his favourite chair before his hearth, rather pleased with himself, "The French." 

Connor shot him a slow, sidelong glance, as though trying to work out why Haytham was so smug, then he snorted and settled back down to his fletching. The world, Haytham decided, satisfied, was back to where it should be.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you'll like to discuss fic ideas etc give me bunnies or sthin, I'm on tumblr at manic-intent and twitter @manic_intent ;3


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